Becoming a nun

On cold days

its easy to be reasonable,

to button the mouth against kisses,

dust the breast

with talcum powder

and forget

the red pulp meat

of the heart

On those days

it beats like a digital clock-

not a beat at all

but a steady whirring

chilly as green neon

luminous as numerals in the dark,

cool as electricity

and I think:

I can live without it all -

love with its blood pump,

sex with its messy hungers,

men with their peacock strutting,

their silly sexual baggage,

their wet tounges in my ear

and their words like little sugar suckers

with sour centers,

On such days

I am zipped in my body suit,

I am wearing seven league red suede boots,

I am marching over cobblestones

as if they were the heads of men,

and I am happy

as a seven-year-old virgin

holding Daddy's hand

Dont touch

Dont try to tempt me with your ripe persimmons.

Dont threaten me with your volcano.

The sky is clearer when Im not in heat,

and the poems

are colder.

~ Erica Jong